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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144801">Honeybee</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlinny/pseuds/gremlinny'>gremlinny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Grinning Man - Philips &amp; Teitler/Grose &amp; Morris &amp; Philips &amp; Teitler/Grose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Disabled Character, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Growing Old Together, Old Married Couple, Post-Canon, canon blind character, they’re in love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:26:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlinny/pseuds/gremlinny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grinpayne’s dark hair has lightened, with time, to a shade closer to Dea’s. </p>
<p>She runs her fingers through his thick curls, knowing that age has turned it white, and giggles, “now we match.”</p>
<p>When her joints creak and her bones ache, Grinpayne rubs Dea’s back and works out the knots in her muscles, and sighs, “now we match.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dea/Grinpayne | Gwynplaine Trelaw</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Honeybee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They’d retired to the woods bordering the beach and the capitol city. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>While they’ve taken up Ursus’ occupation of chemistry and potion-making, Grinpayne and Dea’s home in the forest remains on the ground, not set upon wheels as Ursus’ hut had been.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a calm and quiet life. They venture into town twice a week to sell their wares and to restock on anything not found in the woods. Grinpayne, still timid and self-conscious after all these years, hides his appearance under a hood and a mask and bandages, but the people in town know him well enough by now to welcome him with open arms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They make puppets and dolls, as well as medicine. Carved from wood or made from cloth, and sold in town with the rest of their wares. The other merchants are always glad to see them both, rushing over from their stores and stalls to make conversation. Dea explains the properties of whichever new potion they’ve made, and Grinpayne shyly—but proudly—exhibits the little figures of people and animals, so carefully whittled down or sewn together, each with their own unique differences. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That one,” a woman sneers, jabbing her finger toward a small cloth construct of a little boy, “is missing an arm. You can’t run a business by selling faulty toys, old man, put more effort into your craft.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The commotion always draws the attention of other people on the street. Upperclassmen, on trips to see the misery still present in the city, offer to buy the odd dolls for double the price, and they are never for sale when anyone in expensive clothing talks about adding it to a collection. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They are, however, given away, when little kids pile loose change on the counter and smile at him with dirty clothes and faces sunken in with hunger, and ask if they can pet the big dog curled up at Grinpayne’s feet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>These days, Mojo has more gray than black in his fur, and even Grinpayne’s dark hair has lightened, with time, to a shade closer to Dea’s. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She runs her fingers through his thick curls, knowing that age has turned it white, and giggles, “now we match.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When her joints creak and her bones ache, Grinpayne rubs Dea’s back and works out the knots in her muscles, and sighs, “now we match.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They help eachother, like they always have, the way they always will. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crimson Lethe has not been made—nor taken—in many, many years. There’s other things to manage the pain, new medicines they’ve concocted themselves, which soothe the still-bleeding wound. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But that first drug has taken its toll nonetheless. Moments of forgetfulness, lethargy, confusion. Absentmindedness in the middle of mixing ingredients, disorientation when navigating the streets and shops of the capitol. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“As much as I love this city,” he says, “it’s still just as much a labyrinth as it was when we first came here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They laugh it off in public, and in private they grieve for all the years spent not knowing. Dea apologizes on behalf of her father, and Grinpayne assures her, just as he did Ursus, that he holds no grudge for it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The wound hurts, and crimson lethe’s lingering effects do make things harder, but the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepen when he laughs and says that at least he still has all his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dea asks him, every time they go into town, to tell her what the city looks like, and Grinpayne finds something new to talk about each time. The fruit vendor is selling oranges today, and there’s a new tailor who’s using that storefront that used to be empty ten years ago, with so many bright fabrics displayed in the window now, and once they’re done they can go in and have a look around.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She listens intently, hanging on to every word. In her youth, Dea could see light and shadow, vague outlines of objects, facing the sun with her boyfriend in front of her just so she could make out the place where Grinpayne’s hazy silhouette stood out against the halo of blinding light behind him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cataracts have glossed over her pupils, turning bright albino-white eyes to a foggy blueish gray, cementing the darkness in place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She misses the light, and her husband offers it once again with his narration and stories, and the fact that he is warm and safe and alive. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There are times when he still feels like he’s not worthy of her, but she’s quick to remind him that they’re already married and it’s been this long already. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They still sing together when they’re alone, and on good days, they dance, leaning close to eachother, holding hands, kissing in the middle of the kitchen when they’re supposed to be cooking dinner, swaying along in time with music that’s not playing out loud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Grinpayne, for most of his life, even when he was young, has walked with a cane, purely for the sake of keeping upright when his injury flared up and threatened to bring him to his knees. Most regular days, he at least kept it close by, just in case, and on good days he didn’t need it at all. Bad days left him with shaking legs and a death grip on his cane, every step a challenge. Dea held him up, if he needed it. Worse days, still, had him writhing in bed, unable to think straight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s always had bad joints, able to dislocate his limbs from their sockets as part of his contortionist act at the fair, and there were frequently times when they slipped out of place on accident. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only increased with age, and the pain from his wound is still crippling, despite the medicine. The worst days maintain the trend of leaving him bedridden. Normal days have Grinpayne using a wheelchair, on good days he can balance on crutches, and when there are great days—however few and far between they may be—he walks with a cane, with Dea’s help. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Good days are spent in town for as long as possible, sitting down whenever he can to avoid tiring out too fast. At home he strains to keep standing for the sake of one last dance, until his arms are shaking with the effort of holding himself up, and Dea eases him back down into his chair, and they find a way to maneuver into the same rhythm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Great days lead them to the beach, in the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the ocean breeze. They take the same path every time, slow and steady steps. Dea helps Grinpayne keep walking, and he acts as both guide and narrator, telling her every little detail of the seashore, stopping just short of counting each grain of coarse sand. He bends over to pick up seashells for her, and every vertebrae in his spine pops. She chastises him about being more careful, but never refuses the little gifts, tucking them into her pockets with a smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a small pier jutting into the water, built over an outcrop of rocks, and they sit on the edge with their feet in the water and talk about anything they can think of. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is the sun setting yet?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Almost, it’s on its way down. The whole sky’s bright orange.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, don’t look at it too long. You’ll burn your eyes out of your head, and then we’ll really be in trouble.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Grinpayne laughs, and Dea reaches up to touch his face. There are scars and stretch marks near his mouth, where the skin had shifted and warped, over the years, into something resembling creased laughter lines along the bleeding wound, and they twist and deepen as his nose scrunches up— a kind of smile, in the only way he can manage. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Grinpayne squints to accentuate the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and Dea gently traces her thumb over every little wrinkle, committing the shape of his face to memory, like she’s done so many times before. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Grinpayne, darling,” she asks, softly, “are you crying?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re starting to hurt, we can go back home, we don’t have to stay.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I— I’m not in pain, I’m fine. Honestly. It’s just…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He trails off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Grinpayne?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“…Have I ever told you, Dea,” he says, cupping her face in his hands, “how much I love you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Many times.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I tell you again?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m castledock on tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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